


wanna thrill ya like michael, wanna kiss ya like prince

by futureboy



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Feelings, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, Kissing, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Making Out, Playlist, Vomit Mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 17:27:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19155661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futureboy/pseuds/futureboy
Summary: 5 times Gavin Free got ‘crackles’ around Michael, and 1 time he didn’t, complete with Gavin pop. (This is pure and excitable feel-good and I regret nothing.)





	wanna thrill ya like michael, wanna kiss ya like prince

**Author's Note:**

> [RPF disclaimer: Written according to guidelines set by RT employees (to the best of my knowledge). This is a fictional series of events using characters inspired by real people.]
> 
> Title from MKTO’s ‘Classic’. Gavin sang it in Chickey Doo #22 and I fell in love instantly.

 

**1.**

 

There’s a distant, reverberating tone. It’s probably a voice over the mic, because whatever it says, the crowd shrieks and screams in anticipation.

Gavin kind of gets how they’re feeling.

Michael’s bracelets are scraping up his side, because Michael’s hand is _very_ firmly running up his side and the aglets are catching on him. Fancy being twenty five and still fooling around backstage like he’s fifteen, snogging someone in the wings between rehearsals when he was part of the stage crew in secondary school. It’s just as fun as he remembers.

As much as he enjoys wanting Michael pressed closer against him, he can see the lights from the main room, beaming over their space in the shadows, when his eyes forget to be closed. He’s acutely aware they have a panel at one. He’s not very acutely aware of the time right now, though.

“Mmmh--”

Michael barely pulls back to speak. “We got, like, ten minutes,” he says, reassuring yet irritated at the prospect, and leans back in.

Gavin takes a handful of his hair. Needs a trim, really, but he’s not complaining.

God. Backstage before a panel. They’re young and rather bloody stupid, now he thinks about it, but that somehow makes the spontaneity of their mad decisions a bit less justified. Can’t excuse everything with youth. He’s sure he’d make the same idiot mistakes a decade down the line.

He likes generating static between himself and someone else. Like a storm.

Another distant tannoy echo.

He wonders if someone from the office is going to end up looking for them, stumbling onto the scene with as much surprise as they have that anything’s happening.

Michael chooses that moment to push Gavin harder against a set storage box, and Gavin shuffles back so he’s no longer standing. Michael’s inbetween his legs and they’re still in the dark and they’ll _definitely_ run out of shadows when the curtain comes up, metaphorically speaking.

He decides to ignore the time limit. Ah, well.

“You give me crackles, you do,” he grins, muffled against Michael’s mouth.

Michael huffs with amusement. “Man, what the fuck are you talking about?” he says, equally as muffled.

Only a couple of minutes left.

Gavin suddenly feels like he’s already pushed the limits of discussing this sudden and odd relationship development.

He doesn’t bring anything up after that. And they don’t get caught.

 

* * *

 

**2.**

 

Maybe it happens more often when a big event is on, because it’s coupled with the freshness of being in a new place. Gavin reckons there’s something in hotel sheet linen that makes people get all restless and full of wanderlust.

It would make sense for hotels. Keep them in business and the like, if everyone’s travelling all the time.

They’re already in the UK for a big work conference. So why not squeeze a bit of tourism in? He calls his Mum and asks if it’s alright for him and Michael to stay a couple of days, just whilst they’re passing through, and she says it’s fine. Nice to see his family, nice opportunity to go around his hometown and ditch the others - who are fine, by the way, but they want to do mental bar hopping in London for two days, which is expensive and exhausting. He thought Michael would be well up for _that_ idea.

Michael crashes on the Free’s sofa. Not one complaint out of him.

Gavin’s surprised to find he’s not disappointed, but rather comfy with it instead - something about how the two of them operate means that anything goes, so long as they’re both fine with it. Besides, he might be twenty six years old and frequently dense as anything, but he’s not so entirely stupid that he’d _suggest_ the option to Michael.

They’re still not discussing it. They haven’t said _not_ to discuss it... But both of them seem perfectly content not to.

Gavin likes it. It’s almost better _because_ they’re not doing anything about it, almost more exciting that way. All the strange things left unsaid; all the nervous moments and expectations completely omitted from whatever the bloody hell they’re playing at.

Which is sitting in musty pubs all night, making Michael laugh so hard he could cough his lungs up. It’s November, bringing inside the kind of yellow warmth that makes condensation cluster on the window panes. There’s mulled wine. There’s mead. They get it because _‘it’s like fuckin’ Skyrim, Gav, I didn’t know you lived in Whiterun!_ ’.

When they finally leave, the wind is so cold and still that it itches. The temperature contrast makes Gavin gag and Michael wheeze.

“You’re gonna throw up, oh my _god_!” he cries.

“No I’m nn _-hurg_ -not!” Gavin protests. “I’m bloody fine, I’m just breathing in frost all of a sudden--”

Michael stumbles off of the pavement and into the empty road, like he’s tired his little knees out with laughter.

“Be nice, you knob! I got you Nord Mead.”

“And I’m gonna have to get a barf bag for you, you stupid shit.”

“If you think I’m wasting my mulled wine then you’ve got sommat else coming. Those little dried orange flavour bits were class.”

He pats his tummy contentedly, in a thoroughly Dan-esque manner, and Michael chokes out little laughs all over again. He wonders if Michael and Dan would get along in person.

“If you throw up in my mouth, I’m gonna kill you.”

“Why would I throw up in your mouth?” Gavin asks, and Michael steps fluidly into his space to kiss him.

He reaches for the front of Michael’s coat, pulling him closer and huffing out a visible breath. He’s glad he shaved this morning. For once, Michael’s got more scruff than him, and it sends all his receptors haywire to the touch.

Cloves. Nutmeg. He’s kissing his best friend and a pretty man underneath a honey-yellow lamplight, and it’s got a warm cinnamon edge to it. Gavin thinks of how running frozen hands under a hot tap too soon makes your fingers shoot with white pain.

As they separate, beaming, he could almost believe they were glowing in the cold night - St. Elmo’s fire springs to mind. Electric phenomena, guiding sailors through the night.

They fall into step next to each other, and don’t talk about it.

“ _Growing up,_ ” Gavin murmurs, “ _you don't see the writing on the wall..._ ”

Michael wipes his bottom lip. “Shut up, Gavin,” he smiles, and for once, he’s not being mean about it.

 

* * *

 

**3.**

 

“Guess who’s BACK!” he crows, at eight thirty in the morning.

“Oh, fuck, it’s _you_!” Jack says, recoiling with mock-horror, “we thought we were safe, dude!”

“Can you, like, fuck off back to the Philippines or wherever it was you were?” says Geoff. He looks weary already. “We were enjoying the quiet.”

“It was Singapore, Geoffrey, please,” he flaps. “And then England on the way back. But Singapore! It was bloody gorgeous. Absolutely top. We got some _stunning_ footage.”

“Good for you, man. I wish you’d got jet lag, too.”

Gav shoots him a scrunchied-up smug face. “Where’s Mikey-doo?”

“Oh, he’ll be back in a minute,” Jack says, leaning over the back of his chair, “he was getting coffee, I think. Seriously, Gavin, it’s nice to have you home.”

“Aw, ta, Jack.”

He collapses heavily into his office chair, noting the significant increase in white-ink penis art under his keyboard. Other than that, things are mostly how he left them - ah, paranoia and suspicion! Those old friends he’d forgotten to call for a while. Maybe there’s another piss-off annoying rumble robot in his desk.

He glances at Michael’s seat. He’s got time to change the background to a close-up webcam shot of his face, surely, but…

Oh.

Now _that_ was interesting.

He’s pulled up the browser by accident, and it’s open on Michael’s Twitter page. A rookie mistake, yes, but in the time it takes for him to think of a dickish tweet, he notices that the trends are set to ‘United Kingdom’.

“The fuck are you doin’ to my desk?!”

“Taking a picture,” he says, twisting over his shoulder to see Michael in the door with two steaming cups of coffee. “Why’ve you been checking the UEFA results?”

“I haven’t,” says Michael. He flushes an angry red. “Get out of my chair, Gavin.”

Gav snaps a shot of himself, flaring his nostrils unattractively at the monitor, and Michael placing beverages down in preparation for a wrangling.

He’s willing to bet that the trends were set to Singapore five days ago, too.

 

(“What’s the matter?” Michael asks at lunchtime, nodding at Gavin’s arms.

He rubs them over again. It’s been persistent today. “Gone all crackly,” he explains, “I’ve got the crackles, Michael.”

“Dude, that sounds more like a heart attack.”

Gavin doesn’t deny it.)

 

* * *

 

**4.**

 

It doesn’t matter what kind of holiday Gavin has - nothing beats bevs and telly on a warm night. It’s not even a holiday, not really, but he and Michael have today and Friday off work. They spent the day in the pool at Michael’s complex. Both of them are _soaked_ in chlorine and alcohol.

Eventually, though, hunger and sunset gets the better of them, and they retreat back into Michael’s apartment. Then it’s just them, Panda Express, and a thin knitted blanket Gavin stole from the top of Michael’s wardrobe.

They sit and watch some early episodes of Community. Even though they’re eight years down the line from it, Gavin feels like it’s 2009 in his heart: full of big ideas, and pride, and the desire to share an excellently funny show with Alison Brie in it with someone who enjoys it as much as him.

Michael’s shorts are leaving crisscrosses on his cheek. He pops some joint in his shoulder area, tilting his chin to look up at him, but Michael doesn’t look back.

“Did we get prawn crackers?” he mumbles.

“Of course we did,” Michael scoffs, “they’re in the kitchen. Want me to grab them?”

“No,” Gavin decides, and curls up more in the blanket. It’s really hot already, but he’s cozy and sleepy.

Michael runs fingers through his water-styled hair, and doesn’t bother to follow it up for an explanation. Gavin feels the sensation all the way down to his lower back.

 

* * *

 

**5.**

 

“It’s definitely been a while since we did _this_.”

“Should we-- _Michael_ \-- stop it, should we move? There’s the Playps room, maybe my room--”

“What’s wrong with this one?” Michael asks, and kisses him again. Gavin laughs into a dimple.

They haven’t kissed in the office in _forever_. Maybe not _ever_ in Stage 5, actually - he can’t remember any kissies in this building, that’s for sure, but that doesn’t mean there hasn’t been a dodgy Last Call with an afternoon makeout sesh somewhere in the mix.

He still likes it, he finds. They’re older. They throw Very Sharp Things at each other all day, and deliberately make their obstacles more complex, and balance boiling water over themselves whilst saying ‘wow, this is _hot_ , we really shouldn’t be doing this’.

And yet somehow Gavin still finds this scarier and _better_. It’s all adrenaline. Achievement Hunter go after random kicks, and Gavin and Michael are a clumsy defibrillator.

“Zzzap,” he says, and squeezes Michael’s hip.

“If you’re talking, your tongue isn’t in my mouth.”

“...Not necessarily.”

“Dear god, don’t try.”

Gavin winds his fingers through Michael’s curls, shorter than the last time they did this, probably - they’re a helluva long way from Ralph Ablanedo Drive. You could hear people coming all the way down the corridor, there, but it’s a bit harder in a building as big as Stage 5.

This results in Gavin cramming himself under the desks when Geoff rattles the door handle. He finds a Moonball, several pieces of broken glass, a chunk of roof tile, and that Michael is struggling to hold in his laughter as much as he is. It’d be pretty awkward to get caught kissing in the office.

But that’s why they used to keep doing it, after all. Maybe they should start up again.

 

* * *

 

**+1**

 

“Wanna come?” Michael asks. He flicks his notecard at Gavin like a shuriken, and it catches him in the face. “She said I could bring a plus one. We can laugh at fancy hats together.”

“Yeah, alright,” he grins, half-blind. Michael flicks him in the other eye as he’s clutching his face.

It’s Lindsay’s cousin’s wedding, and as he’s pretty close with a lot of her family, including the bride, Michael snags an invite. To be fair, he’d _asked_ if Gavin wanted to come - Gavin thinks weddings are fun, so if they get to go to a fancy party in nice suits and eat weird tiny towers of food, it’s alright by him.

They’re sat next to each other during the introduction bit with the speeches and starters. At one point, the whole party and reception make toast clinks with their glasses, and Gavin can feel the chime in his bones when Michael gently _tings_ their champagne together.

It’s not crackly, though. It doesn’t rattle; it sings.

After the food tapers off and the dancing begins, he blinks at the realisation that the playlist’s moved away from the orchestral shite. Most people have remained seated, or are at the bar, or are circling the buffet tables, but the odd pair or two have skittered onto the dance floor.

He’d forgotten how crap Wedding Pop could be as a genre.

It’s a bit lovely, actually, because the lull between songs on the playlist means he can get to know Lindsay’s family better. He must’ve met twenty new people in the last couple of hours alone.

“I s’pose it’s daunting,” he muses, in a gap between aunts, “but, like… This is _Lindsay_ we’re talking about. I can’t just _not_ put any effort in.”

Michael eyes him strangely at that. Gavin considers if it’s something to do with how much he values being close to Lindsay - he looks touched, almost - but after a second, he simply moves to refill their glasses instead.

The most interesting part by far is meeting Lindsay’s mom. She gradually works her way towards Michael through the crowd of her in-laws, as non-confrontational as possible: “you’ve been working out!” she accuses, and gives him an enormous hug.

“I didn’t mean to,” Michael says, and hugs her back just as hard. Gavin studies the whole scene. It’s fascinating, observing the woman who brought up one of his best friends interacting with hisBest Friend. There's a protective air to her.

“And I don't think I've been introduced to your friend?” he catches - Lindsay’s mom is flashing a winning smile at him expectantly. He knows it’s genuine delight, because it’s the same expression Lindsay makes before she dicks up an entire round of Mario Party.

He doesn’t manage to spit out an introduction.

“Oh, god, no, Sarah,” Michael grimaces, “don’t let him fool you. Gavin’s not my friend, he’s my permanent pain in the tushie--”

Gavin squawks: “ey! You can’t let _that_ be my first impression!” he says, and lowers his voice aside to Lindsay’s mom: “I’m _so_ sorry about him, really, I am.”

“Seriously, Gav, Lindsay’s probably already ruined you for her mom.”

And even though they bicker their way through Ms. Tuggey’s pleasant conversation, Gavin smiles when he feels Michael take his hand. Just a simple and warm gesture. Natural as anything, right in front of everyone. Lindsay’s mom doesn’t even bat a sodding eyelid. At one point, Lindsay’s brother joins their conversation with half of the wedding party in tow - and that’s when they can have little moments between themselves more easily.

Over the conversation, their low discussion’s barely noticeable. “What’s up, Gav?” Michael mutters to him. He squeezes Gavin's hand. “You got crackles again, dude?”

“Nah,” he replies truthfully. “I’m good.”

He doesn’t feel crackly. No crackles in the slightest. It’s more like pins and needles, as though he’s moving for the first time in too long.

**Author's Note:**

> As always - thanks for reading ♥♥
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](https://futureboy-ao3.tumblr.com/) if you ever need to drop me a line!


End file.
